


Just a Job

by Scrunyuns



Category: Fargo (2014)
Genre: Fix-It, M/M, angst and then fluff, molly's here as well, wrenchers - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-13
Updated: 2015-04-13
Packaged: 2018-03-22 05:40:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3717202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scrunyuns/pseuds/Scrunyuns
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fargo's onto them and Numbers has to nip it in the bud, even if it means ruining the one good thing he had going for him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just a Job

**Author's Note:**

  * For [maskedbandit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/maskedbandit/gifts).
  * Inspired by [The Hedgehog's Dilemma](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3516077) by [I Am Your Spy (GroteskBurlesque)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GroteskBurlesque/pseuds/I%20Am%20Your%20Spy). 



> This one goes out to maskedbandit, as well as all of you who are still in denial, waiting for Numbers to pop up next season and be like "SIKE! I'm not dead!" I hope you enjoy it.
> 
> Greatly inspired by The Hedgehog's Dillemma, which is a vastly more superior fic.

They don't look like much, his bosses; they're small, feeble even. They look like the kind of people who do their shopping at Whole Foods and spend their evenings scrapbooking and listening to Katie Melua. But years of being in the business of taking lives has taught him to be wary of anyone exuding the cool and calm air of an unscrupulous businessman - and the top dogs of the Syndicate most certainly fit the bill. He knows to tread lightly with these people.

When they had called him in they'd asked for him, and him alone, which had made every hair on his body stand at attention. _This is it_ , he'd thought, _they know._

Standing before them now, he can smell the impending doom.

"May I ask why you told me to come here without my partner?"

The lady in front of him - he doesn't know her real name, like he doesn't know anyone's name around here - she simply smiles at him. She smiles in a way designed to make the unassuming feel safe and more astute men, like himself, feel ill at ease. He knows that she, being a woman, is likely to be ten times as dangerous as her male counterparts because she would have had to try ten times as hard to get to where she is. And so she can afford to smile sweetly.

"Actually, she says, in a soft tone of voice, "your partner's the reason we asked you to come here today."

"We've heard certain things," the man sitting next to her explains, squirming in his seat even as he's getting ready to lay down the law, clearly uncomfortable with the whole situation.

"Oh yeah? You been spying on us?"

"Of course," the lady says, shocked at the implication that they _shouldn't_ have been spying. "We monitor all our assets."

"We've heard that the two of you might be getting a little too cosy for our liking."

"Cosy?"

"Yes."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It's supposed to mean," the man says, "that you're a couple of fa-"

"Please," the lady interjects with a soft hand on her colleague's shoulder, ever a professional. "Let's keep this civil, shall we?" She turns back to Numbers. "We know it must be hard to deal with the isolation, frustration and loneliness of your job. But we can't allow our business to be compromised by the delicate nature of your relationship. If you catch my drift."

"I don't. In fact, I have no idea what you're talking about."

"I'm sure you don't," the lady says, her voice still calm but her smile more strained now. "You should know, though, that should you ever compromise the Syndicate in any way, shape or form, we will not hesitate to dismiss you."

He knows what 'dismiss' means to these people. It means him and Wrench taking a dip in an acid bath.

"Duly noted."

The parking lot is empty, and once he's in the car he allows himself to a blow-out, his fists having at the steering wheel, dashboard and windows, nearly tearing off his rearview mirror, his roars of frustration barely audible from inside the car, muffled by the falling of wet, heavy snowflakes.

It's unfair, really; he's been with the Syndicate since before he grew hair on his chin, and he never became greedy, always stayed loyal. He's seen the comings and goings of the ones who _did_ become greedy and disloyal - hell, he even took some of them out. And yet, they couldn't just let him have this one goddamn thing.

It's satisfying to let it all out, but in the end he just sits there feeling like a weak little boy. He always knew it couldn't last.

\--

Numbers' shoes are filled with lead, growing heavier and heavier as he approaches the door to his apartment. He knows what waits for him inside, and it makes the rest of his body feel like lead, too.

When he opens the door he is met with the unmistakable scent of Indonesian food in the air. While he'd been out, his partner had been keeping busy with dinner. You wouldn't think it, but Wrench is considerate like that. And a really good cook, too. _I guess that's a given for someone whose parents were never around._

Noticing his partner's presence from the corner of his eye, Wrench turns to him.

 _Hey you_ , he signs, beaming. _I made your favorite._

He comes at Numbers with a wooden spoon running over with satay, holding his hand out underneath it to prevent any spills.

 _Nice_ , Numbers signs as he savours the creamy peanut sauce, _best you've ever made._

To the untrained eye, Wrench isn't smiling, but Numbers knows him well enough by now to notice the little twitch at the corner of his mouth, the softness of his eyes. He hopes to God that Wrench doesn't know him well enough to see through his smile, forced as it is.

 _You've got sauce in your moustache_ , Wrench signs and grabs a tissue to wipe his partners face.

It is all so very domestic, and just _perfect_. Numbers wants the ground to open and swallow him right up.

They have their meal more or less without talk, Numbers pretending to be too busy eating to make idle conversation. After a few failed attempts at chit-chat, Wrench finally catches on.

 _What?_ he signs.

 _What?_ Numbers parrots, feigning ignorance even though he knows quite well that he's just putting off the inevitable. He's not ready for this. He just need one more day.

_Something's up._

_Nothing's up._

_Is it Fargo? Did they say something?_

_It was just work stuff,_ Numbers signs with a dismissive flick of his wrist and goes back to eating.

_What work stuff? Why didn't they want me there?_

Numbers ignores him.

Wrench's palms come crashing down on the dinner table, making everything from plates to wine glasses to candleholders jump. Startled, Numbers abandons his food and wipes his mouth with his napkin, leans back in his seat. He takes a deep breath.

_I don't think we should do this anymore._

_What? Satay? Date night? What?_ Wrench is looking increasingly confused and worried, almost desperate. _Us?_

Numbers looks down at his hands.

 _Bullshit,_ Wrench signs, snapping his fingers at Numbers when he refuses to look at him. _Bullshit,_ he repeats, more aggressively this time, but it's not getting him any more attention than before.

When Numbers gets up and heads for the door for the second time that night, Wrench bolts after him and grabs him by the arm. He's just about to sign something, about to tell him to stay, when Numbers start shouting at him.

"Fucking take your hands off me!" he snarls, swatting Wrench's arm away. "What exactly do you think this is, huh? We're both lonely, and frustrated, and fucked up, that's all! We should have fucked in the first place, it's so goddamn unprofessional."

Numbers' stomach twists into a vicious knot that threatens to undo him even as the words roll effortlessly off his tongue, having carefully practised his speech in the car on the way home.

"So, what? You're in love with me? Why? Do you think I learned sign language for you or something? I did it for _me_ , to make my job easier!"

Wrench just stands there, not even trying to interrupt. He struggles to keep up with his partner's rapid-fire lips, but he seems to get the gist. Numbers can tell he's upset; his mouth is a hard line, teeth audibly grinding, nostrils twitching, breath heavy, fists clenched. Numbers doesn't want to keep going, he really doesn't, but the stakes are just too high.

"Because, y'know, I'm sorry but this is just a job. We just work together. And we're just partners, nothing more. We can never be anything more than that."

In the dim light Numbers can see his partner's eyes glistening and it all becomes too much, he needs to leave this place before his resolve crumbles. He grabs his coat from the hanger, drapes his favorite scarf around his neck, and opens the front door.

"Just... just stop pining," he sighs, face only half turned; he's not entirely sure that he wants Wrench to be able to read that, the final nail in the coffin.

\---

When Numbers returns, Wrench is gone and so are all his belongings, probably back at that scungy broom closet of an apartment. He'd always wondered why Wrench insisted on holding onto that shithole, seeing as he spent most of his time at Numbers' place anyway. Now it makes sense; Wrench had been worried it would turn sour. And, as it turns out, rightly so.

Numbers can't say he's not disappointed. He looks for a note, but there is none. He looks for things Wrench might have left behind - things he could use as an excuse to go and see him - but there are none. He isn't quite sure what he'd expected. Wrench has never really been one for masochism.

Weeks pass. Numbers spends most of his days willing himself not to contact Wrench. It's especially hard at night, when everything goes really quiet and all he can hear are his own shameful thoughts, when he climbs into bed and finds that it's freezing cold. He fantasizes about leaving Fargo for good, racks his brain for ways out of this mess, but nothing comes to mind. _I could just go,_ he muses, getting himself all worked up about it. _I could just run and take Wrench with me, and keep running._

Then one day Fargo calls him up with a job. He promises himself that it's the last time, and with trembling hands he texts his partner.

'Buck's Diner, 9AM tomorrow. Job in Bemidji, MN.'

\---

They should never have gone out into that freezing hell. They should have just stayed indoors, like everyone else.

Wrench blames himself; if he hadn't been so adamant that they get the right guy, if he'd just listened to Numbers, taking out Nygaard and leaving it at that, they would have gotten out of it unscathed.

Laid up in the hospital, he had never felt so much like a motherless child. A selfish, heartless bastard though he may be, Numbers had been not only his ears and mouth but his _anchor_ for more than a decade. He'd been the first person Wrench had ever really cared about - nobody else had given him much reason to - and then, just like that, he exists in no other capacity than as a memory.

It's not like Wrench hadn't ever worried about it, he'd always known what the average life span was for guys in their line of work. He'd just always imagined that, if they were to go down, at least they'd be going down together.

He feels like God is punishing him for getting greedy, for wanting more. He should have just been happy to be in Numbers' company, to have known him at all. Maybe if they hadn't fucked, if he'd warded off his stupid fucking _feelings_ , if he hadn't demanded to be loved... well, he knows it doesn't make a whole lot of sense, but he thinks maybe Numbers would still be here if he had just been grateful for small blessings.

When Malvo had handed him the key he'd almost considered not using it. With no job and no translator, being on the run would be a giant pain in the ass, even more so than being in prison. At least in prison he'd have stability. But in the end he'd decided to take Malvo up on the offer; not for all the world's riches would he pass up another chance to murder that son of a bitch.

\---

Picking the lock was child's play, and the apartment is empty and seemingly untouched. Apparently the Syndicate never kept files on their employees' living arrangements; if they had, this place would have been crawling with feds by now.

He lifts the loose floorboards under the doormat, sticks his hand in. Eventually his fingers find something cold. _Thank God._

The metal box is flowing over with fake passports, drivers licenses, car registrations, license plates, weapons and spare ammo, things for a rainy day. Numbers was always so careful.

Wrench picks out one of the passports and examines the photo within. It's his face, for sure, but he looks very different. He remembers the day when they'd done the photos; Numbers had insisted that he use a disguise for at least one set of documents, should the day ever come when he needs one. And what do you know, that day is today. _That fucking wig,_ Wrench thinks. _Itched like all hell. And those glasses... Goddammit, Numbers._

As he's rummaging around for emergency money, something catches his eye: a folded-up piece of paper marked with Numbers' clumsy rendition of a wrench.

_Partner,_

_In case shit ever goes pear-shaped: I never meant any of it. The bossmen had found out and they wanted it to stop. They made some threats. I knew you'd be a stubborn little shit about it, as you often are, so I thought it'd be better if I just made you hate me._

_I really tried to find a way for us to get out, but I guess I failed. I'm sorry._

_And I know this might be too little too late, but I love you._

_#_

Clutching the note in his hand, Wrench feels a mixture of emotions coming on. Numbers was right, it would have been easier to move on if he hadn't known, if he'd just kept on hating him. Fucking typical. Even in death Numbers finds a way to annoy him.

And yet he can't stop his heart from swelling. _It was real._

\---

"Visitor for you, Frankenstein."

He's still unable to speak, not sure when or if he'll ever be able to again, so his lips simply form a silent 'Who?'

"Lady cop who got you."

_Great. What does she want now._

Molly Solverson looks like a child, her pale blue eyes wide with pity for him as he approaches the glass in an orange jumpsuit. _How dare she? She's the one who put me in here, for chrissake._

She's got a translator with her this time, a short mousy guy who vaguely reminds him of Lester Nygaard. _I wonder whatever happened to that little shitstick._ As far as he knows he hasn't been caught yet, despite Solverson's efforts. Lord knows he's been questioned enough about the guy, but so far none of it has stuck. Numbers finds himself almost feeling sorry for her, having to work for such a bunch of cretins.

"Your throat seems to be healing up nicely," she says with an awkward smile, getting no response beyond a glare. "Okay... Listen, I've come to ask about your partner."

 _He's dead,_ Numbers signs, and the mousy guy translates for her. _What's there to know._

"About that," she says and clears her throat. "I kind of lied. He, uh... he escaped."

Numbers feels his mouth going dry. One part of him is ready to slump into a big boneless pile on the floor for all the relief he's feeling - but another, more vicious part wants to punch through the glass and strangle her. He takes a deep breath, steadies himself. It would of course make sense to lie about that sort of thing; it's easier to book a guy if you take away the only good thing in his life. _Fair enough. Fine._

"I, uh... I told him the same thing. About you, I mean."

And now his blood boils. The cops lying to him is one thing, but lying to Wrench? Fuck that.

 _You have no fucking right_ , Numbers signs with shaky hands, barely restraining himself from grabbing his chair and hurling it through the glass. _You don't know dick about us. You have no fucking idea. It was just_ me _and_ him _. No one else. He's_ got _no one else. Do you have any fucking clue what you've done? You've got no right._

Solverson looks sheepish as she takes in the translator's words.

"If you could help us find him," she starts, hesitant, "we, we might be able to get you a good deal. I bet you'd like to know where he is too, right?"

 _The audacity!_ Even if he did know where Wrench was, he'd rather have his throat slit again than rat him out. Numbers props his elbows up on the table in front of him, flipping her the bird with both hands.

"Oo-kay," she says with that fucking annoying rural Minnesotan accent of hers. "I guess I'll come back another time."

\---

A year drags on, and he's in maximum security. He doesn't mind prison so much; it's not as if he hasn't seen the inside of a cell before, and his days are spent working and reading so it's more or less the same kind of life he had on the outside, just without the lethal peril. This place is full of murderers and rapists, for sure, but for the most part they stay clear of him. His general demeanor is enough to scare most sane men off, and the scar on his neck adds a great deal to this image. It has faded somewhat by now but it's still very much visible, a warning to anyone who tries to fuck with him: _You can try and kill me, but you won't succeed._

The only thing that really makes his incarceration unbearable is the knowledge that Wrench is out there somewhere, and that he's unable to reach him. Most likely, he doesn't even know he's alive. He couldn't really believe it himself, at first.

Numbers knows quite well that his partner can hold his own physically, it's just the thought of him on his own that troubles him. Underneath all that muscle and murderous intent, there's a vulverable and volatile man who hasn't known another life for well over ten, almost fifteen years. Now he's on the run, with no job, no partner, no translator, backed up into a corner like a dog. He knows he'd certainly be feeling lost if it were the other way around, if he was out there and Wrench was in here. Numbers is reminded of Solverson's words, _I told him the same thing about you,_ and once again he feels furious and helpless.

Then one day, the C.O. tells him he's got a visit from one Harry Speck. He knows that name - he was the one who came up with it, after all.

_About fucking time._

\---

If Numbers could laugh, he would. Loudly. He had forgotten about that atrocious wig. _And those glasses, good god... Well, at least he's ditched that atrocious cowboy jacket._

 _You look ridiculous,_ Numbers signs as he takes a seat behind the glass. _And where are your sideburns?_

 _Disguise,_ Wrench signs back. _You picked it out, remember?_

_Well, I didn't pick out that nasty trucker cap. What the fuck are you doing here?_

_Needed to see you._

_You are dumber than shit. How did you even make it past security?_

_Maybe it's the staff here that are dumber than shit, not me,_ Wrench shrugs. _I told them I was sent by your lawyer, now that you can't speak. They seemed to believe me._

_You got lucky. What the fuck are you thinking, coming here? Do you want to go to prison?_

_Maybe I do. It's shit out here without you._

Numbers sighs and buries his head in his hands. Wrench knocks on the glass.

_That Bemidji cop told me you were dead._

_Yeah, she told me you were dead, too._

_Fucking pigs_ , they sign in unison. Numbers can't help but crack a smile.

_So how did you find out?_

_Was on my way South, ready to pack up and try somewhere else. And there you were, on a TV in a diner. Mugshot. Big gash across your throat._

Numbers touches his scar gingerly.

 _For what it's worth,_ Wrench continues, _it makes you look like a hard-boiled motherfucker. I bet nobody around here fucks with you._

_They sure don't._

_You're so fucking sexy,_ Wrench signs, licking his lips.  _I wish I could come in there and just-_

 _I thought we were done with that,_ Numbers interrupts.

 _I found your letter, idiot,_ Wrench explains, making a kissy face. _In the box._

 _I'd forgotten about that,_ Numbers signs, embarrassed at the memory of writing that damn thing. He'd been reduced to a snivelling mess by the time he'd locked it away in the box.

_How could anyone forget something that sentimental? You might as well have perfumed it._

_Would you have come if you hadn't read it?_

_I don't know. Maybe just so I could call you an asshole._

_Well, either way I'm happy to see you. What the fuck took you so long, though?_

_Needed to lay low for a while. Thanks for not ratting me out, by the way._

_Of course I fucking wouldn't,_ Numbers signs. _How did you get out anyway? Thought you'd be chained to the bed like I was._

 _Malvo paid me a visit_ , Wrench answers with a roll of his eyes. _Gave me the key to the handcuffs. Said to come and visit him if I still felt raw. Can you believe that guy?_

_Yeah, that's pretty fucking arrogant._

_He said he slit your throat, but the motherfucker didn't tell me that he didn't finish the job._

_Maybe he thought he did,_ Numbers signs. He can still hardly believe it himself. _He's dead, you know. Nygaard, too._

_Yeah, I heard. Good riddance._

_Not by your hands, then?_

_No._

_Disappointed?_

_You have no idea. I'd been tracking that piece of shit for over a year._

"One minute," the guard calls out.

_Look, I gotta go. Thanks for coming._

_Wait,_ Wrench signs, stopping Numbers in his tracks. _I'll get you out. Or if I can't, I'll get myself in._

 _Don't be fucking absurd,_ Numbers signs with a frown on his face.

_You have no idea what it's been like this past year. All I can get is freelancing bullshit, and those jobs are few and far between. I feel useless out here without you._

_You'd be useless in here._ I'm _useless in here._

_It's only for a few years._

_Are you kidding? We'll both be old men by the time we get out._

_I don't care._

"Time's up," the guard shouts, and Numbers gets up to leave.

 _I miss you,_ Wrench signs and puts his palm to the glass.

 _Now who's being sentimental?_  Numbers signs, rolling his eyes, but he puts his hand to the glass all the same.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sure there were plenty of inaccuracies about prison life in here. Sorry :-S


End file.
